“Naw,” John said, almost pooh-poohing her. “I’ll bet he’s sleeping up there. Just be careful in the daytime, if this one’s got distemper like we think.”
Maye was struck dumb for a second when she finally realized what the cop was saying. “You think the murderer is a raccoon?”
Plumber John pointed at her. “That’s what we’re thinking,” he concurred. “But the perp is still on the loose, we haven’t apprehended it yet, so I’d be careful in the daylight if I were you.”
Finally, Maye brought herself to ask again who it was that had been attacked. Was it one of the scooter women at Cynthia’s tea party who wouldn’t upgrade to the faster and more stylish Renegade model because it was too flashy when an extra two-mile-per-hour push might have saved her life from flying claws? Could it have been Agnes, with the Saran Wrap skin, who failed to fight off a mammal the size of a basset hound because of her toothpick bones and transparency? Who could it have been that was not strong enough to fight off a raccoon?
“It was the lady across the street,” John answered, and pointed at the cream-colored picket fence. “Nice lady. Real nice lady. Never so much as got a parking ticket, and kept her drains so clean they would sparkle, that Cynthia McMahon.”
Maye still couldn’t believe what had happened when she saw the headline on the front page of the paper the next day: MAD COON EATS OLD QUEEN.
It was incredible. It was simply inconceivable to Maye that Cynthia was not only dead but that she’d had her life light snuffed out by an adorable woodland creature, a friend of Bambi’s, no less, armed with alleged claws of death. It was akin to being mugged by Goofy or carjacked by Piglet, Maye thought. She walked around in a daze for the entire morning, hoping that Cynthia hadn’t suffered and that it was over quickly. Maye felt horrible—if she had been home, perhaps she would have heard the attack and been able to help in some way. And Cynthia’s poor husband, to come home and find his wife being nibbled on by a stuffed animal with bloodlust.
Although she admittedly didn’t know Cynthia all that well, the woman had never been anything but nice to her, except that part about accusing Maye of poisoning the earth, but then again, Maye had had no way of knowing about Styrofoam Day. It was a comment most easily forgiven, especially now.
It was just so unreal. She had just seen Cynthia several days earlier, and it seemed completely impossible that she was dead. And honestly, the more Maye thought about it, the more implausible the entire Killer Raccoon scenario became: Cynthia, a woman a little past her prime, sure, but otherwise in excellent physical shape, being ambushed by a scheming, plotting Rocky Raccoon, and mauled to death? How exactly would that happen? Why wouldn’t Cynthia have run back inside if the animal was acting odd? She hardly seemed the type to engage in feral-beast wrangling, even with one that had a high Disney snugglability factor. The more she thought about it, the more she didn’t believe it. Maye decided there had to be more to the story than a crazy raccoon with murder on its mind.
And then there was the pageant. Maye tried very, very, very hard not to be selfish in this time that required not thinking about yourself but being concerned only with others, but she couldn’t help it. There you go, Maye thought to herself as she slipped into Sewer Pipe Queen mode for the nth time that morning; there you go. And there was the equally bothersome thought about Maye’s playing Dick Deadeye and the question of whether she was still obligated to be in the play now that Cynthia was no longer alive. She didn’t want to be Dick Deadeye. She’d only agreed because fair was fair, and right now the scales of justice were a little tipped out of Maye’s favor. There’s a slight chance I may be going to hell now, she told herself when the selfish thought popped back into her head for the seventeenth time that day, but then she almost laughed when she asked herself who she thought she was kidding. It was simply another level of the underworld conquered and accomplished. By sneaking out of Cynthia’s house crouched behind the less mobile on scooters, Maye had already qualified for the basic level of hell that consisted of trudging along on a treadmill with nothing on television but The View for all eternity.
She had earned the intermediate level of hell by lying to Vegging Out Bob, which meant that she would spend the hereafter in a Wal-Mart store at 6 A.M. the day after Thanksgiving as shoppers jostled, pushed, and rubbed against her to secure the cheapest things hellishly possible, while their children, also known as demi-demons, cried, screamed, and begged for hell’s cuisine, corn dogs and Mountain Dew. She had graduated to the advanced level of hell shortly thereafter when she was caught by Vegging Out Bob whilst gnawing on a piece of pretty cow, which entitled her to experience the forever after in Miami in August, sitting in a filthy deli across from an old woman who smells of cat pee eating a pastrami sandwich with her mouth open.
Now, with her new sins propelling her to the doctoral level of hell, Maye was assured a spot back in seventh grade, where she would be forced to run that Chub Rub mile and then take a shower with girls much thinner, and prettier, and who had not reached the ranks of puberty that Maye had, until the end of time.
So to combat her guilty, selfish concern about losing her royal flush in the game of Sewer Pipe Queen, Maye decided to do the only nice thing she could do, and got her car keys to go and order flowers for Cynthia’s service. She was almost to her car when she saw a man who looked to be in his mid thirties crossing the street in her direction, carrying a video camera and a tripod.
“Hey!” he yelled, running faster as Maye opened the door to her car. “Hey! Excuse me! Excuse me!”
“Yes?” Maye replied. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I’m the reporter, anchor, producer, and photographer from WDRK, Spaulding’s Number One and Only News Choice, We Are News to You!” he called out as he slowed his moderately hefty body to a jog and then stopped, breathing heavily.
“Okay,” Maye said, shrugging.
“Um, did you know the victim across the street? The woman who was eaten?” he stumbled as he flipped over the cover of a small notebook he pulled from his shirt pocket. “Cynthia, Mrs. Cynthia McMahon? Did you know her?”
Maye nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“Oh, fantastic!” the man said as he set up his tripod in Maye’s driveway. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about what happened last night?”
Maye hesitated but couldn’t really see the harm in it. She had been a reporter, she knew how important sources were when working on a story. “I guess that would be all right,” she answered. “What was your name?”
“Richard Titball,” the reporter/producer/photographer said. “Call me Rick.”
“Rick Titball,” Maye repeated, marveling that he’d physically survived a childhood surely overflowing with enough school-yard torture to qualify him for a serial killer’s profile or enrollment in clown college.
“Now, if you could just stand there…perfect,” Rick said. “That’s great. Just stand still, I need to set the shot up.”
He ran back behind the camera, adjusted the angle, apparently pushed “play,” and then ran around in front of the camera, next to Maye. He took several deep breaths, closed his eyes tightly, and counted to three, and at the same moment his eyes flew open, he shouted, “ACTION!”
“I’m here at the scene where…where…oh, shit! Cut!” he yelled angrily, hitting his leg with his microphone, then ran around to the back of the tripod and pushed “stop.” He flipped open his notebook again and Maye saw him mouth the words “Cynthia McMahon” several times until he was convinced he got it right. He pushed “play” again, ran in front of the camera, counted to three, and again shouted, “ACTION!”
“I’m here at the scene where Cynthia McMahon was tragically murdered last night,” Richard Titball reported. “And I’m with her neighbor—”
He flipped his wrist and pointed the microphone at Maye, who was taken by surprise for a moment and finally said, “Maye Roberts.”
He flipped the microphone back to himself. “That’s okay,” he whispere
d into the microphone. “We can edit the pause.”
Maye sort of shrugged and nodded.
“Now, Miss Roberts, you were a friend of Cynthia McMahon?” Richard Titball asked her.
“I was,” Maye answered. “She was a lovely woman.”
“Were you surprised by what happened?” he asked.
“Of course I was,” Maye replied. “You never expect anything like that to happen to people you know, or on the street where you live. I can’t believe it.”
“Can you tell us what you saw here last night?” the reporter dug. “Was there blood on the street?”
“Excuse me?” she replied, shocked. “No, there was no blood on the street.”
“Are you afraid the raccoon will come back for more?” Richard Titball asked dramatically.
“I’m not sure if it’s been established that that is what happened,” Maye commented. “You’d have to confirm that with the police.”
“So you doubt the police report?” Richard Titball probed.
“No,” Maye said, shaking her head. “I just think that it needs further investigation for some definitive answers.”
“Do you think we should round them all up and exact justice for what’s been done to one of our own?” Richard Titball asked.
“Well, you can’t blame the whole raccoon population for the alleged actions of just one,” Maye said, then remembered her earlier thought from that morning, “I’m sure most raccoons won’t attack unless they’re being attacked first. It’s unbelievable. It’s like being mugged by Goofy or carjacked by Piglet.”
“That’s great, thank you,” Richard Titball said, then looked into the camera and screamed “CUT!” before he ran behind the tripod and pushed the “stop” button.
At the florist, Maye chose a bouquet of white roses, calla lilies, and tulips to be sent to Cynthia’s husband, whom she had waved to on the street now and then but had never met. She returned home and was making dinner when she switched on the television to see if there had been any update in the investigation of Cynthia’s death. Naturally, it was the lead story that night, and she hoped desperately that her interview had been forgotten on the editing-room floor as she watched Rick Titball introduce his own story, “A Killer in the Backyard: When Raccoons Murder.”
“I’m here at the scene where Cynthia McMahon was tragically murdered last night,” Titball reported. “And I’m with her neighbor—”
Suddenly, Rick Titball’s face appeared in a close-up as he said, “MAYE ROBERTS.”
“Now, Miss Roberts, you were a friend of Cynthia McMahon?”
“I was,” Maye said.
“Can you tell us what you saw here last night?”
“—blood on the street,” Maye suddenly said.
“Is it true that a raccoon went crazy and killed your neighbor?”
“Raccoons won’t attack unless they’re being attacked first,” Maye told the reporter.
“So you doubt the police report?” Rick Titball inquired.
“It’s unbelievable. It’s like being mugged by Goofy or carjacked by Piglet,” Maye interjected.
“I’m Rick Titball, WDRK, reporting,” Rick Titball said. “Back to you, Rick.”
Titball then followed his own story with tips on how to survive a small-mammal attack and a tip line to call for anyone sighting a suspicious raccoon that fits the description, although the only description given was “a raccoon.” He went on to explain that the suspect was still believed to be in the vicinity, probably because of family ties.
Maye couldn’t believe what she had seen.
“Oh, Titball,” she said between clenched teeth. “I’d like to squeeze you until you’re blue!”
She immediately called the tip line, hoping to set the record straight and get her interview pulled from the later broadcast. After five rings, the station finally picked up.
“Rick Titball,” the voice said.
“This is Maye Roberts, and I just saw your report,” she said angrily. “And I have something to say to you!”
“Yes! Have you seen the killer? Quickly, give me the info. I’m on commercial,” Titball replied.
“I want to speak to the station manager!” Maye said sternly.
“Um, he’s at lunch,” Titball stammered. “Try the community-service line.”
“Do you answer that phone, too?” Maye asked.
There was a pause that couldn’t be edited out. “Sometimes,” Rick Titball said quietly. “Gotta go. It’s time for the weather, and the weather girl ran off to Miami with her body piercer.”
Maye slammed down the phone and fumed silently as Rick Titball appeared on the screen in front of a map of the country with a laser pointer in his hand.
That Rick Titball, she thought to herself. He was a Dick after all.
That Saturday, Maye and Charlie arrived at the Spaulding Memorial Chapel to attend the service for Cynthia. To their amazement, the parking lot was empty save for a few cars.
“Are you sure we’re here at the right time?” Charlie asked. “Is this even the right place? There’s nobody here.”
Maye pulled out the notice of Cynthia’s service that she had clipped from the paper. “Spaulding Memorial Chapel,” she read aloud. “Two P.M. Right time, right place, Charlie. Then again, all of Cynthia’s friends will either be taking the senior shuttle or riding their scooters down here. If you want an aisle seat, we’d better get in there now.”
As they entered the chapel, they saw that the seating area was just as empty as the parking lot. Not a soul in sight except for an older man sitting in the front row, whom Maye recognized as Cynthia’s husband.
“Hello, Mr. McMahon,” Maye said as she and Charlie walked to the front row. “I’m Maye, and this is my husband, Charlie. We live across the street.”
“Oh, yes,” the older man said, standing up and shaking both their hands. “Thank you for coming. Please call me Pat.”
“We’re so sorry about Cynthia,” Maye said. “She was such a nice person. She was always very kind to me.”
“Oh, you were the girl she was going to work with for the next pageant,” Pat said, nodding in recollection. “I know she was really looking forward to it. Didn’t I see you on the news the other night?”
“Yes, that was me,” Maye replied hesitantly. “But I was horribly misquoted; everything I said was taken out of context. I even called the station to complain, but the only person to talk to was the reporter who did the story. I’m so sorry you had to see that. I really am, I’m quite angry about it.”
“Oh, that Rick Titball,” Pat scoffed. “Rick Screwball, if you ask me. He’s misquoted just about every person in town! Plus, it turns out that a raccoon didn’t kill Cynthia after all, just like you thought, Maye. Medical examiner found a three-inch long beetle stuck in her hair, and the best he could figure is that she was trying to get it out when she fell down the stairs and broke her neck taking some old donuts out to the trash. That woman loved her hair spray, and in the end, it trapped that beetle like it was in a cell. I guess during the fall, some of the jelly from those donuts smeared on her face, and that’s what the raccoon was trying to eat. I tell you, it was a sight, though.”
“I can’t imagine,” Charlie said.
“I guess it’s better this way than being a murder,” Pat said, shaking his head. “I love nature, but I didn’t want it to make a meal out of my wife, you know.”
Maye wasn’t sure how to reply to a comment like that, so instead, she chose door number one, trivia.
“I’m sorry if we came too early,” she said, motioning to the empty chapel. “We didn’t mean to interrupt your alone time, but the newspaper said the service was starting at two.”
“No, no,” Pat replied. “That’s right, it was two o’clock. Unfortunately, you can’t really book a funeral in advance, unless it’s an execution or something, and well, it just so happens that today, of all days, is Styrofoam Day. Everyone’s out at the plant.”
“Oh,” Maye said, again
not really knowing what to say. She tried to be optimistic. “I’m sure more people will come to the funeral.”
“Nah,” Pat said, waving his hand. “There won’t be one. Cynthia had decided to donate her body to the Automobile Institute for Crash Testing. She loved the aspect of reuse. It only makes sense that she got recycled herself. In fact, I’d better wrap this thing up. Elsie is out there, holding my place in line. Nice of you to come, though. Are you heading out there yourself? It will be one hell of a line by now.”
“Got a bag of peanuts in my car,” Maye answered, nodding.
Already knowing that they had done their fair share of poisoning the earth with what the Styrofoam gods had bestowed on them, Maye and Charlie lied to the new old widower. There were no peanuts. The last piece of Styrofoam from their house had entered the trash and Cynthia had secretly plucked it from their bin and added it to her own collection days before a loud and large black horned beetle had become entombed in her lacquered hair and she tumbled down eleven of the twelve back stairs.
9
The Ghost of Ruby Spicer
T he Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant had been going strong for as long as Spaulding had been a town, Maye realized. Considering the average life span, that meant that there had to be at least several dozen Old Queens walking around—after all, Maye hardly knew anyone in that town, and she had already bumped into three of them. There had to be someone she could dig up who wasn’t already sponsoring a contestant, and the odds were finally in her favor.
After she read the morning paper, which had been consumed by Cynthia’s death—the headline read RACCOON CLEARED: BEETLE SUSPECT IN QUEEN MAULING while the one below it read, “H.M.S. Pinafore Sunk After Lead Runs into White Light”—she decided to put her rusty reporter’s skills to work and find out just how many Old Queens were rattling around the streets of Spaulding.